


The Dying Coroner

by the_noble_bachelorette84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, NSFW, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:56:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1447681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_noble_bachelorette84/pseuds/the_noble_bachelorette84
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock Holmes needs help with a case while John is on his honeymoon with Mary, Molly is more than happy to oblige. But a new Sherlock is before her. One who is quite comfortable invading her personal space and executing occasional and so-called harmless physical contact. But, for Molly, is this a fate worse than death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dying Coroner

Molly was exhausted. She had no idea how John did this! Calls at all hours. Bizarre methods, whether they worked or not. The constancy of the nagging feeling of inferiority she got around the brilliant sociopath and consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.   
They’d been deducing, as she liked to call it, for about a week. John and Mary were honeymooning, and they wouldn’t be back for a couple of weeks yet. A lovely, month long vacation! That sounded perfect to Molly.   
She hoped she’d get to have a honeymoon. She fidgeted with the diamond ring on her left hand. She worried the thing more often now than ever before. She wasn’t even sure why she was wearing it, as they were sort of “on a break” and she didn’t foresee the break ending  
Things had been difficult since the wedding. Tom had noticed, as dreadful at deduction as he was himself, that Sherlock still held prime space in Molly’s heart.   
Did he see her admiring him during the ceremony? She spent most of it wishing his coat tails wouldn’t cover his perfectly sculpted ass. He might have noticed where her focus lie. Or maybe during the speech when her pulse quickened at all the little things Sherlock said that painted the most perfect picture of his friendship with the former army doctor. The speech that further sent her into frenzy when it turned into a more sinister game of life and death. She had felt her most private muscles contract when he hopped over the head table and began to solve the case of The Mayfly Man properly.   
Most likely, it was during the bride and groom’s first dance together. Sherlock played a beautiful and touching love song that he’d written just for the couple, on his violin. She knew it was a love song, despite the fact that it had no lyrics accompanying the tune. The emotion just flowed from the instrument like water from a spring.   
Molly marveled at the way his fingers lay pressure on the strings of the instrument and the slow, lulling rhythm with which he drew his bow across them, his hand elegantly and lightly, almost lovingly, gripping it. She thought her eyes must be black as a demon’s, as dilated as her pupils must be at the sight of the man on the raised platform.   
She met Tom’s gaze before attempting to right herself, and his face had fallen. This was, at the very least, the proverbial straw of the evening. He didn’t shame her by leaving her. He was too much a gentleman, for which Molly was thankful. They danced, somewhat awkwardly near, and sometimes with, Mrs. Hudson.   
It was still enjoyable until she saw Sherlock in a conversation with the newlyweds, and then, after a quick glance around, his eyes meeting the chief bridesmaid, whose name, she thought, was Janice, and then glancing away toward the door.   
He wasn’t actually considering dancing with that trollop!? He was Sherlock Holmes! He was a sexual non-entity! And he was not as keen on this union as everyone would like to believe. He was clearly worried about losing his best friend in the world, again, and he tried constantly to hide it. But Molly knew better. She knew he was holding back and knew that he was suffering from a great pain.   
This street corner fixture would never understand him like Molly did. Couldn’t possibly in all of her vapidity, appreciate the complexity and enigma of the beautiful man she observed.   
He left rapidly after the quick glance. Molly then noticed that there was a gawky young man dancing with Janice…no, that wasn’t right. It was something slightly more youthful, like Jessica or Jennifer.   
Oh well, it didn’t matter. But Molly thought Sherlock had indicated this chap during his speech, bringing…J-, oh, maybe it doesn’t even start with a J! He brought the bridesmaid’s attention to him.   
But what was Sherlock thinking? Was he jealous of a person who would likely cancel a date at the chance to be a fill-in Dungeonmaster for his friends Dungeons and Dragons night?! She couldn’t think so. But Sherlock was leaving the hall.   
He walked toward the rooms. She wanted to go to him. So badly, staying put was agony. She was really putting in the effort not to hurt Tom’s feelings at this point, though, and anyway, her decision was made for her as she saw Sherlock walking out the door, through the courtyard, and into the night.   
“John, JOHN!” Sherlock shouted, snapping Molly from her reverie.   
“Sherlock, have you forgotten something?” Molly asked kindly. He only referred to her as John about every few hours, now. It had been worse before.   
“Oh, right. Anyway this chemical test I’ve done on the fibers we found proves conclusively that Mr. Harper was at a carnival in Sussex the night his wife was murdered, apparently making advances on not only the bearded lady, but also the Siamese twins and even the strong man in the freak show. He is a man of repugnant habits, but murder is not one of them, at least not hers.” Molly nodded and continued with the worrying of her left ring finger.   
“I need something to eat, are you ready for a lunch break?” Sherlock said.   
Molly looked at her watch and her eyes widened. Had they really been working all day?   
“Well, I think we’re getting a might close to supper, Sherlock. But yes I’m utterly starving, now you mention.” She heard her stomach churn just a bit at the idea of food consumption.   
“Should we get take-away? How about Speedy’s? I think they deliver!”   
He had continued to busy himself, milling about the instruments on the tables, adjusting the scopes and arranging the beakers. He walked behind her saying “Whatever you’d like.” His hand rested momentarily on the space between her shoulder blades, and then, Molly froze and melted instantaneously. She couldn’t imagine her bodily reaction to the momentary contact not being painfully obvious, even to someone with the most basic deductive skills.   
Wasn’t she at least three inches shorter? Her face the color of a ripe strawberry? Eyes wide, resisting the urge to grab him by the arm and pull him back to her, lip to lip. She must have kept her hammering heart enough in check to have fooled Sherlock, though, because he said nothing, and it wasn’t like him not to say something!   
After figuring out what they wanted, she called and placed the order, and, hanging up, said with exasperation “Well, brilliant! Their only delivery boy on duty is stuck on the A95 on his way in with a flat tyre. He won’t be in for at least an hour, so I’ll have to fetch it.”  
Molly went toward the coat rack. “Oh. Alright, let’s go.” She was taken aback at his decision, and apparent eagerness, to go with her.   
“You’re…you’re coming along?” she asked, brow furrowed slightly.   
“Yes, of course.” He said with his typical air of smug condescension. “Molly, I’ll be bored to death, and I’ve nothing left to do here anyway! Let’s go grab the dinner and go through some cold case files Gary lent me. Maybe we can scrounge up an interesting homicide to solve! I love cracking the ones where the killer has gotten into a comfortable routine and thinks they’ve gotten away with it all!”   
Molly loved hearing him say her name. It was infuriatingly sexy. Then he said “Gary” and she was momentarily taken aback, until it clicked.   
“Gary? Could you mean Greg?” she attempted to correct him, which was, by all previous account, more than futile!   
“Oh, for God’s sake! Lestrade! Honestly, it’s as if people are bloody obsessed with me saying this man’s name correctly! It doesn’t matter! You KNOW to whom I’m referring, let it go!” he blustered, waving his hands about.   
Molly was discouraged a bit by this. She thought Sherlock’s attitude was improving, but this indifference made her wonder.   
“Sherlock, obviously names are no more important than hair, eye, or skin color in the end, but as far as communicative ease goes, it would be a lot easier to understand you if you used his proper name, or simply referred to him by his surname since that doesn’t seem to be difficult for you. Oh, and not that you care, but it does hurt his feelings a bit that you have damn near infinite space in your brain for tobacco ash, but can’t remember his first name.” Molly scolded as she doffed her lab coat and donned her jacket and scarf.   
Sherlock paused in tying his scarf, seeming to contemplate Molly’s words. He looked down, almost ashamedly, at his black shoes. “I see. I’m sorry, Molly. I don’t mean to imply that Lestrade…Greg…is unimportant to me. He is a friend. And it is wrong of me to dismiss him in this way.”   
Wow! Molly was a bit shocked. She was expecting some smart assed comeback or another, but what she got was so unlike the Sherlock she was used to that she dropped her purse, some contents tumbling out. She and Sherlock both stooped to retrieve the liberated items, going for the last one, a tube of lip balm, at the same time.   
Their hands touched for a second, skin to skin as Sherlock hadn’t yet put on his gloves, and Molly felt a familiar flame that blazed from the point of contact all the way up her arm and radiated throughout her body. The embers from the last place he’d innocently touched her hadn’t been totally snuffed yet. What would it take to douse the fire of this closer, more intimate touch?   
She withdrew her hand quickly, to avoid the deep sear of desire making a more ghastly wound.   
Sherlock had not moved an inch. He was frozen for a moment, with an unfathomable look in the tempest of his eyes. He eventually stood from his crouched position, straightening his collar and scarf and clearing his throat.   
“Now, if we’re through with this discussion, I would like a meal before I reach retirement age!” He said curtly.   
“Fine!” Molly huffed as she followed him to the door of the lab, which he held open for her, guiding her out by the small of her back.   
Why? Oh, God, why did he do this!? She didn’t know what to think! He was all over the map today! Insufferable asshole one minute, and sensitive gentleman the next. Molly was fed up with all of it, but she was too hungry and too tired to proceed with any more than miffed silence.   
They walked to the car in the parking garage without a word. Molly was clearly fuming, but if Sherlock noticed, and he noticed everything, then he had decided to leave it.   
They arrived at Baker Street, parked the car on the curb, popped into Speedy’s for their sandwiches and chips, and climbed the stairs to 221b.   
Sherlock cleared the various beakers, instruments, test tubes, and diverse gore from the center island in his small kitchen. Molly noticed a small canister of disinfectant wipes next to the sink and insisted on using two or three on the newly cleared surface before they tucked in to their take-away. Sherlock busied himself by retrieving the files he’d filched files from his room.   
Sherlock’s bedroom…Molly mused as she wiped a particularly badly soiled section with vigor. She wondered what it looked like. What it smelled like. What he kept on his bedside table. What book he was reading at the moment. If Sherlock Holmes did anything as mundane as bedtime reading. What did he think about, or maybe look at before he nodded off…did he have any smutty thoughts or materials tucked away under his mattress? She didn’t talk about it, but she had some trusty fan fictions printed out that always got her motor running. Was Sherlock that normal? The thought of him touching himself made her face and ears burn. What would that face of his look like when--   
“Well, here are the files, where should we start? There’s a potentially interesting one about a man found stripped completely naked except for one sock on his left foot. That is, it would be interesting if the killer was someone other than the obvious--what are you doing?” he interrupted her naughty musings and startled her into finishing the thorough wipe down.  
“Nothing, done!” she deflected, tossing the soiled wipes in the bin and stepping over to the sink to give her hands a good scrub with the vegetable brush. She’d worry about contaminating the vegetables they cook, but they didn’t cook ANYTHING at all. She wasn’t even sure why they HAD a vegetable scrubber!   
She took a paper towel from the roll, dried her hands and threw it away as well, nearly skipping back over to the bag in which their supper was waiting, piping hot and doubtlessly full of terrible yet scrumptious things!  
Speedy’s was one of her favorite spots for lunch, but she didn’t go as often as she liked for fear of being called a stalker of Baker Street. Now that she was working regularly with Sherlock, she had a great excuse! She thought Sherlock may be getting tired of it, but if he was, he didn’t let on.   
She removed the two boxes of chips, put one box in front of each of them, and examined the sandwiches wrapped in foil to figure out which one belonged to whom. “Okay, this is the chicken with sautéed veggies, mine, and the pulled pork barbeque for you. Bon appetite!”   
She found the napkins at the bottom of the bag, but they wouldn’t be of much use. They were soaked with grease. She sighed, tossing them, and retrieved a couple of paper towels from the roll. She distributed them between them and sat down on her barstool, eager to eat after a difficult day and having a miniscule breakfast!   
Her sandwich was delicious! Perfectly seasoned chicken and lots of cheese and mushrooms were the ticket here, and Miles, the main cook at the establishment knew just what he was doing! She was devouring it! Relishing also in the salty goodness of her chips, which needed nothing else on their crispy golden crust.   
She looked at Sherlock, enjoying his barbeque, but not quite as much as she was enjoying her sandwich. She wouldn’t have pegged his as a barbeque man, but there you have it.   
Molly grabbed a file off the stack of cases Sherlock had set on the surface and began perusing it silently as she finished her chips. She wasn’t really cross with Sherlock anymore, but she was still a little cold, and she didn’t know quite why.   
Was it his coldness, his warmth, or was she still fixating on that bridesmaid? She huffed audibly. Sherlock did not let this one slide.   
“Molly, is something amiss? You seem on edge.”   
“Fine” she said, the implication of her being not at all fine painfully apparent to the detective.   
“You know my reputation Molly, you know nothing can be hidden from my eyes. Don’t make me deduce it out of you.” He smirked, impishly. How dare he look so adorable? He had no right.  
This was it. The last days of Pompeii! She was going to lose it.   
“Alright, master ‘tec! Here’s my statement. You’re not going to love it, but by God, have you ever asked for it today! You are the matter, Sherlock. Your mood is mercurial and when you’re bad, you couldn’t be any worse! But then I see this softness in you, and I wonder if there’s hope for you, only to be bludgeoned by the harsh blow of another insult. If you miss John and would rather just wait for him on all this, then just tell me! I’ll go back to just helping you when you’re desperate!”   
Molly felt a bit bad, she shouldn’t have shown her rage like that. She should have found a more diplomatic way to air her feelings. But Sherlock didn’t seem to mind.   
“Molly, I’ve told you how much your friendship and our work together has meant to me—“  
“No! No you haven’t, Sherlock! One time, just before I helped you with the fall, you told me I counted, and one time after that, you told me thank you, but that’s all I’ve had from you. No more positive reinforcement. If that’s all I mean to you, then fine, but don’t imply that I mean any more. Thinking I do will eventually break my heart, and I don’t want you to break my heart, Sherlock. I just want to be certain that my feelings for you are unrequited and not be teased into thinking there could be more.”   
Molly couldn’t believe what she was saying. She was not drunk and was laying her feelings more or less on the line. Why wasn’t anyone stopping her? A full body tackle! A slap in the face! Something to get her to shut up and stop spilling her soul to the man she loved most but she knew would never love her.   
“But Molly, you’ve got Tom. He’s…well, he’s great! He’s good for you, and you seem to be in a very good, affirmed place…”   
“Oh, Sherlock, stop it. I know you don’t subscribe to all of that nonsense. Besides, Tom and I, we’re kinda, on a hiatus right now. He’s not really over his ex. We got engaged much too soon. Plus, I wasn’t over the last guy I fancied anyway.”   
“Who, Jim? Molly, come now, I wouldn’t expect even you would pine over such a sociopath!” Intelligent oblivion. That summed up Sherlock Holmes. Surely he wasn’t just having her on.  
“Not Jim, but a sociopath. Or at least one who claims to be…I’m not so sure.”   
“Anyone I know?”   
“Eh, you may have heard of him. He was in the papers a few years ago for jumping off Bart’s, but somehow, he survived. Can’t imagine how.” She was wrong. He was teasing. She didn’t know why he was playing coy. He’d known her feelings about him since forever and knew exactly to whom she was referring, just taking the piss out of her with Jim. Or as she preferred to refer to him now, Moriarty. His villain name. His true name.   
“All this heavy talk has got me needing a drink? Fancy a glass of merlot?” he offered, politely. She nodded in ascent. She never said “nay” to a glass of wine, sweetest sweet to driest dry. “Why don’t you move a few files over to the coffee table in front of the couch? More comfortable.”   
She moved the files and sat on one side of the soft leather sofa, but this took Molly aback. What was his game? Did he think they were just going to snog now? Nothing had changed at all, other than Molly had said the words Sherlock already knew were true. He surely hadn’t had a change of heart about her. Had he?   
She had her answer when he sat down in the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table from her after handing her a half full glass. Their fingers touched briefly, lightly, almost imperceptibly. It singed Molly’s skin.   
They poured over their respective files, sipping vino and turning pages. Then Molly stumbled upon something that she thought was a pretty interesting find.   
“Sherlock, look at this!” He hopped up and over the low table to sit next to her on the couch, leaning over her shoulder like a hawk, or really, a parrot!   
“This man, Grady Fletcher, 35, was found in his parked vehicle after several weeks of unseasonably and uncharacteristically dry weather for London. It hadn’t rained for about three weeks. Look at this mud on his shoes and the hem of his jeans. There wasn’t a bog around for about 100 miles where he could have got that. What do you reckon?”   
Sherlock was beaming at her.   
“Molly, John never gets things like this! Thank you! For being the bloodhound to his goldfish.”  
He had moved closer than Molly had thought when she looked up from the file and into his oceanic eyes, full of dark and mischievous intensity. His lips were inches away from hers! The rapid rise and fall of her chest appeared to momentarily distract Sherlock.   
“So what does this mean?” Molly breathed, quietly.   
“It means I’ve felt this way for a while, Molly. It means you drive me to distraction. It means I’m going to do this.”   
He laced his fingers in the hair at the base of her skull and pulled her towards him. Their lips met and Molly’s internal self screamed and squealed with triumph and delight!   
She had wished without the hope of a hope for years. Since the day they’d met she dreamed about him kissing her. Running his tongue along her closed lips, requesting entrance. His hands on her body, igniting her when she could actually do something about the urges. His lithe tongue dancing with hers. Her own hands exploring his slender, solid body. She couldn’t touch enough of him to satiate the need she felt. The need to rip his clothes off and have her way with him.   
The crazy thing was that he seemed to be equally voracious. Her cardigan was hanging off her shoulder, his hands having sought purchase closer to her skin, which seared at his continued closeness. He kissed her harder and harder until she was pretty sure she tasted blood, and she knew her lips were swollen. It was worth the minimal pain.   
His hands moved down to the small of her back and found their way beneath her clothes. His left hand moved down into her jeans and knickers, and squeezed her behind on the right side. His right hand moved under her shirt nimbly, and impressively solitarily, unhooked her two-hook closure bra.  
She moaned into his mouth as he leaned her back against the arm of his leather couch.   
Her hands had not been idle either. She’d unbuttoned his plain white oxford shirt and untucked it from the dark, crisp jeans that she favored on him because they hugged his perfect ass without being too tight or uncomfortable-looking.   
They were now reclined, Molly’s right leg curled under the left, which was hanging off of the sofa. Sherlock was kneeling below her leg, supporting himself above her with his left hand while his right ventured under her shirt and bra. She was broiling under his touch and her nipples were erect to the point of pain. His hands on her flesh were all she could think about. Where they had been, where they were, and where she wanted them to be next.   
She wrapped her arms around him, tangling one hand in his hair. She would have been content to do this until they fell asleep in each other’s arms, exhausted from hours of snogging and decreased oxygen to the brain. But that didn’t mean she complained when he moved his hand to the front of her jeans, palming the fabric covering the warm, ever dampening flesh beneath. She groaned and wiggled her hips at the erotic contact.   
He broke away from the kiss, breathless with need, and looked into her eyes. He brushed a lock of perspiration-dampened hair out of her flushed face. He smiled his most maddening and rare smile and descended upon her ears and neck, lavishing them with kisses, nibbles, and licks that made her skin crackle and sent electricity through her veins.   
He slipped her cardigan and blouse off, planting kisses on her smooth, porcelain shoulders as he went. Her skin was so sensitive that every time his lips made contact with it, she shivered with desire. He slid her unfastened bra from where it lay on her breasts, and began ravishing them with his mouth.   
The consummate multi-tasker, his hands stayed busy as well, kneading the denim-covered flesh between her legs, causing enough friction to ignite her.   
Her hands worked in his hair, gently tugging at the follicles; nails scratching lightly across his scalp. Could it really be his hair? This thought presented itself in two ways. First, could she really be tugging on Sherlock’s hair? Was this her current reality? Or was it another vague dream that she wouldn’t remember more than a few images of in the morning? Second, the strands were far too soft to be real! It was as though she were running her fingers through the finest cashmere. Or the downiest of feathers. She’d always imagined it being soft because of its shininess, but it had surpassed her wildest musings.   
His mouth on the skin of her neck and chest took her breath away.   
“Sherlock, mmmm.” She sighed, contently.   
He knelt straight up on the couch.  
“Molly, I don’t want you to go further with me than you are comfortable. I know this is all new and if you want, we can hold off for a while. I’m not going anywhere, and if you need more time to process some residual feelings for Tom, say the word, and we can go back to the cold cases.”   
Molly chuckled deep in her throat.   
“Sherlock Holmes, I’m more than willing to go as far as you’re prepared to take me! In fact, if you don’t continue, I may combust right here, cremating your couch. Nobody wants that. It’s a nice couch!”  
He relaxed and sighed, “Oh, wonderful! Because I would have definitely needed a cold shower before we continued with these!” He said, indicating the now-abandoned stack of cases.   
His lips met hers again momentarily, then broke away in order to see what he was doing. He began unfastening her jeans when a thought occurred to him. He leapt off the sofa, darted to the door and did the chain that he had recently installed as a measure of further security.   
“Mrs. Hudson is out, but I don’t know for how long, and I don’t want any intrusions!”   
“Oh, good idea!” She expressed with relief.  
He walked back to the couch, and, towering over her, hooked the long fingers of each of his large and beautiful hands into the waistband of her jeans and panties. She raised her hips for him to remove them both with one swipe. Her ballet flats slipped off with the bottoms.   
She laid there on the smooth leather surface now completely nude, which made her quite self-conscious and timid.   
“You are lovely, Molly.” He said as he stepped off the couch to kneel on the floor. He repositioned her hips in order to get a better angle for what was to come. He planted chaste kisses all over her legs and on the moist flesh between them.   
She thought his nimble tongue in her mouth had been a joy. That was nothing compared to what he was doing with it now! Was it possible that he was doing this with his singular tongue? He was a fast talker, but she never thought about its application to other...oral skills.   
One of his beautiful hands that had been squeezing her thighs had just now disappeared from view and she had the feeling that she knew where it was headed. Woah, there it was. Good God, she knew his fingers were long, but THAT long? It must have been the middle digit. She moaned as she felt a second finger join the first. The beckoning motions he was making in tandem with the rhythm of his lips and tongue sent her into spasms of pleasure. Her body was not under her control anymore. It was moving and twitching and writhing involuntarily. He was still holding onto her for dear life, slowing his movements to bring her gently down from her climax.   
"Sherlock. Oh my God! How and where did you learn that!?"   
"Molly, you know that my mind is capable of storing more information than the average library. Didn't you think I'd have 'how to please a woman sexually' tucked away in there somewhere?"  
“Well, I just never pictured you applying it…well, that’s not true…” she said, breathlessly, immediately correcting herself. “I can’t honestly say that I’ve never pictured you between my legs.” She laughed in spite of herself and Sherlock smiled widely with a single chuckle.  
“Well it was an immense pleasure bringing the picture to life for you.” He repositioned her more comfortably on the couch and leveled his mouth with hers. He planted a chaste kiss at one corner of her mouth, then the other, then one directly on her lips. And another. And another, getting more urgent and less chaste with every one. He parted his lips this time, inviting her in. She laid a hand on each of his chiseled cheekbones and held him tight to her mouth. She could taste her flavor on his supple lips and tongue.   
As they kissed, Molly ran her hands down his elegant, slender neck, over the planes of his chest, and down his solid abdomen. She found the bulge in his jeans, palmed it, and squeezed just a little. He gasped through his nose and moaned into her mouth, relishing the gentle pressure. She rubbed the straining fabric, creating a friction that caused Sherlock to harden even more, and deepen their kiss.   
When she didn’t think he could take anymore, she relented, and unbuttoned and unzipped his now uncomfortably snug jeans. She tugged the denim as well as the thin cotton beneath it, about halfway down his thighs, which freed him. She was quite astounded, looking down at this…well, this huge thing that was supposed to be inside her…not only that, but it was supposed to actually feel GOOD! How?! Molly was no virgin. No, far from it. But Sherlock was more…blessed…than any other man she’d been with. She had legitimate concerns, which showed in her face.   
He grinned, something very much like pride on his face! Sherlock Holmes was well-hung and glad she knew it!   
“Ready?”  
“Ye- Wait! Do you have…”  
“Oh, right.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a gold foil packet.   
Molly’s eyes widened, surprised. “Did you just pull a condom out of your pocket? You carry condoms in your pocket now?”  
“Well, I know what you’ve always been like about me. We’ve been spending time together. I’ve grown rather fond of you. I couldn’t postulate a scenario in which we didn’t eventually get to this point in some form or fashion.”   
Molly was dumbfounded. Sherlock Holmes, the man for whom so many swooned, but whom none ever won, had actually purchased condoms, not in case, but for when they inevitably made love. She grabbed his face and kissed. Harder than before, and even more ravenously.  
She broke off, panting, and snatched the condom from him. She held his gaze as she opened it with her teeth. She grasped him to make sure he was ready, and, finding that he was MORE than ready, slid the rubber down his immense length. She went so slowly; Sherlock was groaning at the welcome torture. They repositioned themselves and looked deeply into each other’s eyes.  
“Ready Molly?”  
“Yes, I am, Sherlock!”   
She was more than ready. Been ready for years now. Maybe she’d been born ready for this moment. She trembled as she felt him draw near. Her muscles ached with longing for him.   
He entered her slowly, carefully, so he didn't cause her pain. But she couldn't believe that she had been worried. The feeling of him inside her instantly soothed the yearning discomfort she felt. His size was no longer a concern, but a blessing. One, without which, she didn't know how she would live now that she'd experienced it.   
He stilled, and asked "Are you alright?"   
It was a loaded question. She and Sherlock were occupying the same space on the sofa in his flat after dinner and wine. She was far from alright, yet she had never been better! What a glorious paradox to experience! She decided to go with the affirmative option, moaning out a lust-muffled "yes."   
Sherlock kissed her cheek and began to move his narrow hips. His pace was agonizingly slow at first, but quickened as Molly's body adjusted to his presence in it. His whole body, positioned the way it was, was perfect for creating the right amount of friction in all the right places, inside and out. He'd also moved his hands to her hips and waist, the subtle movements he was making slowly driving her mad with lust.   
"Sherlock! Ooh!" She drew out all of the vowels in his name and he quickened even more, finally up to normal speed.   
"Molly, I'm close, are you-"   
"Yes! God yes!" Molly grasped Sherlock's ass, digging her fingernails in just a bit, and dragged them up his back.   
"Oh Molly" he uttered reverently and buried his face in her neck, kissing and biting it gently and sensuously. The sweet, intimate contact sent Molly's body over the edge and into oblivion. Her body convulsed and twitched and spasmed around and under his. Her clenching muscles were just what he needed, and he came with a whimpering groan.   
He looked at her flushed and glistening face, smiled, and kissed her chastely on her red and swollen lips. He lingered on them longer than he would have, because their activities had made her smell intoxicating to him.   
Sherlock removed himself from Molly, slid off the condom, and tossed it into the wastebasket Mrs. Hudson insisted he keep next to the couch. He laid back down between her body and the back of the sofa and wrapped his arms around her, squeezing tightly. She rested her head on his chest sighing contently, but then chuckling a bit at what had triggered this magical, but surreal chain of events.   
“What’s funny?” Sherlock asked, brow slightly furrowing and maddeningly adorable.   
“Well, I was just thinking, you remember a while ago when I asked you ‘what does this mean?’”  
Sherlock nodded his understanding.  
“I was actually referring to the bog mud on the corpse!”


End file.
